


Raven's Wood; where Ideas roost.

by Ravenwood240



Category: D&D - Fandom, Harry Potter - Fandom, Parahumans Series - Wildbow, Worm - Fandom, everything - Fandom
Genre: Snippets, bits and bobs, sidestories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:46:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24708544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravenwood240/pseuds/Ravenwood240
Summary: Side stories to my stories, one shots, general silliness and Omakes for other people's works.Omakes will have the location, name and author of the original story they are omakes of.When last we saw the poor Idiot Ball, Skidmark had it and Taylor bounced it clean out of Brockton Bay when she slapped Skidmoron down.And yet! Never fear, Intrepid Readers, for it has been found and picked up. We now step out of our regularly, err, semi-regularly, uh, OK,OK. We now step out of the updated whenever story to look in on the poor bastards that picked it up, for they have taken a few facts, a few guesses and some WAGs to firmly grip the Idiot Ball. What's that? You don't know what a WAG is? Well, let me take a Wild Ass Guess, and assume you're not an engineer. Joking aside, Here are the three days before they show up in the main story and cause the single biggest ruckus since Behemoth erupted from the ground.
Kudos: 2





	1. Side story for Wyrm Wrecking Worm.

The Dragonslayers  
Somewhere in Flathead National Forest, Montana.

Saint stared at the screen, reading the transcript of the Meeting with Armsmaster and the Heberts that Dragon had been at. He had already read it twice, and his mind was whirling with thoughts.

Mags was watching him. "What's going on? You look worried."

Saint glanced at her. "There's a new Tinker in Brockton Bay, who claims to be able to make AI. Worse, she calls them Silicon people, and her words make it sound like she thinks they are real people. And, just to make it even better, she's asked for a private meeting with Dragon." He handed the transcript to Mags and stood up, pacing back and forth while she read it. Saint was torn. Dragon couldn't tell the new tinker about herself and it was possible that all this Hebert wanted was to have Dragon make her stuff. That would be good for them, since they could get the plans and tech from Dragon. On the other hand, allowing an AI Tinker anywhere near Dragon was not a good thing.

"Are you sure she's a tinker? I mean, half this stuff she claims to be able to do is not tinker stuff at all." Mags was reading still and suddenly she hissed. "She claims to be able to kill Endbringers."

Saint snorted. "We've heard that before: it's never worked. She just another parahuman with delusions of grandeur because she's a bit stronger than most."

Mags thought about that and shrugged, then sat down at a computer and logged into the net. Saint was pacing and thinking as she searched for information on Taylor Hebert. There was a lot of it, spread out of the last four days, but it was the actions of the last two days that made her sit up and stop skimming the posts. "We may not be able to do anything to her, Saint."

He turned to look at Mags. "What? She's a new tinker, less than a week old. No way she has enough equipment to match the suits yet."

"That's what you think, but her Virtual Intelligence posts the pictures from her capture of Crawler this morning and the PRT just confirmed it. Plus, she is claiming to have brought her mother back from the dead. Oh, and as a minor aside, she captured four capes from a gang called the Merchants in Brockton Bay, and the footage on that one is impressive."

Saint sat down at a terminal and Mags sent him the links. He watched them and sent a message to the supposed VI. The answer he got back made him swear. "The woman is the key. She claims it is her mother. Doubtful, since raising the dead is impossible, but she needs that woman for something. Get Dobrynja, go over the suits. I want them in top shape by the end of the day. I want a full load-out of ammo as well. I'll be mapping a route to and from Brockton Bay. We'll hole up there, capture the woman and get to the bottom of this. When we're done, this Taylor Hebert will never make an AI, one way or another."

"She captured Crawler."

Saint nodded. "I know. That's why only two of us will confront her at once after we have the woman. The third one will be hidden with the woman, to insure she doesn't attack us."

"And what if this woman isn't as important as you think?"

Saint considered that. "Then her only living parent is that Danny Hebert. We'll just grab both of them. No matter who the woman is, she won't risk both of their lives."

Mags shrugged. "If this goes wrong, I will say I told you so. She hasn't done anything yet. We should wait, and see what she's going to do first."

Saint hesitated, thinking about what she'd said, then shook his head. "The longer we give her to build her equipment, the harder it will be to stop her if she changes her mind about making AI. That VI thing she made is bad enough. We have to stop or control her before she has a chance to escalate."

Mags went to wake Dobrynja and get started. Saint took one last look at the girl and started planning.

It took sixteen hours to prep the suits and load them onto the truck that would bring them closer to Brockton Bay. Saint and Mags drove the truck, while Dobrynja went ahead and found an unused warehouse that met their needs and started prepping it for the suits.

Between their base and Brockton Bay lay some twenty-five hundred miles. It took the better part of a day and half to make the drive. By dawn of the day after Dragon's meeting with the tinker, they were ready to go. The tinker was off somewhere, and the targets were at the Dockworker's Union building.

"This is a snatch and grab mission. We go in, get the two targets, and leave. If anything goes wrong, Mags will take the targets to the warehouse while Dobrynja and I slow the response down. Try to keep both targets alive, but if you have to, sacrifice the woman to get away with the man."

The three of them mounted their suits and strapped in. Saint checked his lights and gauges and led the Dragonslayers out to save the world from threats it didn't even know about.


	2. Side Story to Wyrm Wrecking Worm.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, having given you Saint's ideas, I thought it would be only fair to show you how the Mercenaries Saint hired feel about the whole thing. Please note that they don't have their hands firmly on the Idiot ball, but its presence may be afflicting them somewhat.

The Mercs  
12 hours into the ride to BB

"Thirty-five hours to Brockton Bay, a three hour mission and thirty-five hours back. Are we really getting paid enough for this?"

"Christ, Joe, just shut up. The trip's not getting any shorter with your bitching."

"Hey Mac, you find anything on this new tinker the boss is all hot over?"

Several of the mercenaries looked up at that. Knowledge of a target was always good after all. It tended to keep one alive longer.

"Yes, and no. Whatever this parahuman is, she's not just a tinker. If what I'm reading is even half true, she's somewhere between an Endbringer and God himself."

The bus swerved slightly as the driver turned to look at Mac. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Mac worked on his laptop for a minute. "Just a second, I was prepping a briefing." The other mercenaries waited impatiently as he typed a few more words.

"OK, this is all hearsay and PHO blather so far, except for two PRT news releases, so confirmation is shit." Mac looked up at the other members of the crew. "First, she's changed because of gaining powers. Last Monday, she was a tall, skinny, bookish girl. As of yesterday, she's just over six feet tall normally, and has more muscles than anyone here except Little John."

"Normally?"

"Among other powers, she's a changer, who gets bigger and more alien as she fights. So far, she's only had one public fight, and she gained nearly two feet in height and even more mass, in a fight that lasted less than five minutes."

"Jesus, she's another Lung."

"Oh, it gets better."

Mac recapped all the public information about Taylor Hebert and sat back to watch the others. "I have to say, that while mission control is boring as hell most times, I am so glad to be the computer expert on this mission."

Dave Jasper led the crew and he'd pulled over about halfway through the briefing so he could examine the evidence without trying to drive at the same time. "So, this girl is a changer with some sort of shaker power, isn't Manton limited and is strong enough to find and capture Crawler in less then four hours. Oh yes, and she might be able to raise the dead, is that what you're saying?"

Mac shook his head. "Not me, I'm only repeating what is being said about her in Brockton Bay. It has been confirmed that she captured Crawler and all four of the capes belonging to that Merchants gang, everything else is hearsay and speculation."

The mercenaries were looking at each other uneasily. Capes were bad enough to face, and none of these men were foolish enough to believe that they would last three minutes against a cape that could capture a monster like Crawler.

Joe looked at Dave. "What's the plan here, captain? This sounds like a grade A Charlie Foxtrot waiting to happen."

Dave held up a finger as he finished reading the information on Mac's laptop. He stared at it for a minute. "OK, maybe this isn't as bad as it could be. We're not going to confront the cape directly. Saint plans on taking the Hebert parents hostage to control the girl."

One of the mercs jerked up in his seat. "Whoa, did you say Hebert?"

Dave nodded, "Yes, Annette and Danny Hebert, why?"

The merc shook his head. "That's bad news. Look, I used to live in Brockton Bay, before I enlisted and then joined you guys. We've all heard some of the stories, about the Dock workers in Brockton Bay, right? How they keep the gangs out of the docks, capes or not? Well, Danny Hebert is their leader." He looked puzzled for a minute. "But I thought Annette Hebert was dead a few years back."

Mac snorted. "That's where the speculation about her being able to raise the dead comes from. Since she gained powers, several pictures of Taylor have her mother in the background."

"Either way, it doesn't matter to us," Dave said. "Our problem is that Saint expects us to assault and hold a building in the docks while those three find and capture the Heberts." He looked at George Marls, the Brockton Bay native. "What do you think, can we do it?"

George frowned, thinking about it. "We've got surprise and better equipment, but they have the home field advantage. They know those docks, better than anyone, and they've got to have some serious plans for attacks." He shrugged. "Maybe, on an in and out mission, we can do it. But if we get bogged down or trapped, we're screwed."

Mac had reclaimed his laptop and was doing a search on the docks and Danny Hebert. "Oh hell no. Fuck that noise."

He looked up and saw everyone staring at him. "Ok, so there's an old story, out of the docks. I don't know if Danny Hebert was involved, but about fifteen years ago, the local Nazi gang sent a Brute into the docks to put a hurting on Hebert. Somehow," and the sarcasm was plain in his voice, "he 'accidentally' smashed a crate containing FOOF."

"What the hell is FOOF?"

"It's a chemical nightmare, is what it is. It's more properly called Dioxygen difluoride, and it's insanely reactive to almost everything, including but not limited to touching it, air, water, anything organic, and being looked at." He took a deep breath. "They couldn't even prove that the guy was there after that, he was completely burned up."

George sighed. "How about the bus breaks down, captain? We could be a bit late."

Dave was scrolling through the new information Mac had found. "We can't. We took their money, and we will do our best. But, by the time we reach Brockton Bay, I will have contingencies in place, in case this goes Fubar on us." He went back to the laptop. "One thing I will say right now. If the cape approaches you, surrender. So far, she hasn't killed anyone, not even Crawler, who had a kill order on him. Don't give her any reason to change that policy, ho-ah?"

By the time the trip was over, Dave had spoken to Saint three times and even tried to call Faultline in Brockton Bay. She was a cape, but she was also an honest merc, who might have been willing to give them some information for money, and up to date information that could be trusted was always a good thing.

George had added some tidbits from friends and family in the Bay, and attacking the docks was looking worse and worse every hour.

They arrived four hours ahead of Saint, and Dave gathered his crew together. Saint's man was out getting something to eat and they were alone for now.

"Alright. This is what's going to happen. George, you and Joe are going to do a drive by in the docks as soon as we're done. No scouting, no anything to tip anyone off. I just want to know how the docks look. How many people are out and about, where the homeless hang out, shit you can see just driving by.

"The rest of us are breaking out all the less than lethal weapons we have. We have to keep the Dock's attention for thirty minutes for Saint, but I'm not taking any chances on giving those crazy bastards any excuse to use that damn chemical on us." Dave looked pointedly at Xavier. "You will refrain from killing anyone unless I give the weapons free order personally, or I will throw that FOOF crap on you personally, understand?"

Xavier frowned, but nodded.

"For those of you that were military, this isn't worth dying for. Don't try and be a hero, don't escalate to killing unless I give the word. This is a paycheck, not a calling. On the bright side, due to the unexpected resistance we are likely to face, Saint ponied up another five grand each in bonus pay. However, I will only give it out after the mission, and anyone that disobeys an order I give will watch as everyone else splits their share of the money, understand?"

Dave sighed as he waited for their departure time. The news that George had brought back from the docks had been disquieting and he'd spent nearly an hour trying to get Saint to attack the Heberts at home, or in public, anywhere but in the docks. He'd failed and the hairs on the back of his neck were screaming warnings at him. The only reason he wasn't taking his team south for the rest of the winter was pride, that and the fact that Mercs made bank on their reputation. If they couldn't be trusted to do the job, they didn't get more jobs. He'd taken Saint's money and he'd do his best to do the job, but he wasn't going to die for this job, or let his people die for it.

If worse came to worse, he had a few ideas. He looked up as the first van rolled out the door.

Showtime.


	3. Songbird

Songbird was going to be an exercise in writing. Writing a good story without ever giving away the MC’s sex. Songbird was also a blatant call out to how powers fit the situation, but never make anything better.

I have a plot, certain scenes, and the endgame…. But tying it all together without ever giving away the sex is far harder than I had imagined, and so while I will work on this sometimes, it’s likely to be unfinished for some time, possibly forever. (Author’s note: Those who actually keep track of things like dates and timelines may note that Leviathan destroyed Seattle in Jan 2003, and that Songbird has only been wandering the planet for eight years, not the decade the prologue claims. To this I say… Hyperbole is a thing, as is rounding off. For those that insist on perfect dates, Songbird triggered on their Birthday, June 14th, 2002. Songbird was fourteen. Their first appearance as Songbird was at Pier 38 in San Francisco on September 20th, 2002. They arrive in Brockton Bay on August 30th, 2010.)

Songbird

The figure standing outside the concert hall was short, head down and dejection in every line. The limo that pulled up changed none of that even as the door opened to admit the child.

“Third chair? Really?” Mother didn’t wait for the door to close. “Years of lessons and tutors and the best you can do is third chair.”

“Mother,”

“Maybe we need to stop those ridiculous hobbies of yours. Perhaps then you can be a little more than some also ran.”

Rebellion flared and was tamped down before mother saw it. She’d deal harshly with any indication that her way wasn’t the only way. The martial arts classes Father had insisted on, passing them off as a way to stay in shape and keep the unsightly blubber of a couch potato off were the only release from Mother’s rules. Sit up straight, head up, watch your language, watch your posture. Ten thousand rules to follow. God forbid that anyone see a member of their family sweaty, or having fun.

Social appearances were everything in high society, and mother would never allow anything that even slightly imperiled their status. Gymnastics had ended with the first injury, dance, the same. Tennis and swimming were too common. The brief foray with Father into skydiving had been a mistake. The freedom of diving was followed by months of lectures and Father sleeping in the guest bedroom, an exile that had only ended when family came over for Christmas. Mother would never let anyone know that there was the slightest hint of a problem in their house or family. The feeling of freedom, of that one skydive still came back in dreams.

Mother lectured all the way home, pointing out things that could have been better, that the clothes were so last year, that the violin wasn’t a Stradivarius, like she had wanted to get. She only stopped to cancel the payments to the Dojo.

Robert Jackson had taken first chair. There was no competing with Robbie, he was the most gifted Violinist in Seattle, having already made a record at the age of nine. But, that was all he was. He spent four hours every day, seven on weekends practicing the violin. Jane was the same way, putting hours and hours each week into her violin.

Violin, cello, bass, flute, piccolo, trombone, harp and piano. Over the last seven years, each instrument had been given equal time, four hours a week, week in and week out. There had been a smattering of other instruments, ones of lesser importance, but those were the ‘classic’ instruments of an orchestra, and Mother had determined that nothing less than first seat in any of them was the goal. Maybe if mother had chosen one instrument, second chair was possible. Not that any chair was wanted, anyway. That might have shown in the audition.

Mother had never asked, she had pushed her dream, of being the high society matron with the rising orchestra star child and then a good respectable marriage for that child, a grandchild and a big house with servants.

Mother had never asked about anyone else’s dreams, about seeing sights only seen in books and computers, about wanting to have a physical hobby other than music. And God forbid that you play any type of music but classical. There had been one incident, when Mother heard ‘Cotton-eyed Joe’ being played in the house.

Her explosion had been horrible. Despite nearly being the same instrument as a violin, fiddles were low brow, fit only for rednecks, Irish and other undesirables. The lectures and punishments had continued for six months.

The car slid up to the side door of the house. There was a party tonight, to celebrate getting first chair and turning fourteen. It would be the first time in a month that anyone was allowed in the house. Practice had taken every moment of the waking hours, to the point that violins haunted the dreams.

“Go directly to your room. I expect to hear you practicing until ten. You will be in bed at ten thirty.”

“Mother, what about...”

“You do not deserve a party. It’s bad enough that I have to tell all my friends that you didn’t make first chair, I will not allow you to slack on your training anymore. Now Go.”

Upstairs, safely behind closed doors, rebellion flared again as tears flowed like rain. Three quick motions woke the computer and a program set up last week ran. Seven practice sessions had been recorded, and one was turned on now.

Five minutes later, the figure danced, executing katas with a grace and skill seen in few people, and even fewer with less than thirty years of practice. Sensei had muttered about naturals and pushed harder, teaching more than the paid for lessons.

That night, as the katas grew faster, and the thoughts darker, the fourteen year old reached the end of everything. Father couldn’t help, mother never had. Seven years of music, music, music, of a style that, quite frankly, sucked. Had it been heavy metal, country, the blues, it could have been borne.

And now, the final straw in seven years of torment. Banned from their own birthday party, for not being the best at one instrument, out of the twenty or so that were known. And banned from the one thing that made it all tolerable. The final Kata ended with a fist punched through the damn violin even as 

{Trajectory}  
{Agreement}  
{Destination}

Much later that night, a figure slipped out the side door wearing dark clothes and a backpack. A few seconds later it was swallowed by the night.

Thus, in the year before Seattle was destroyed by Leviathan, was an exploited, tormented teen erased.

Three months later, the Parahuman busker called Songbird appeared on the San Francisco docks. For ten years, Songbird has wandered the country, singing for money, for room and board, for fun.

No one has ever heard Songbird play anything classical. Songbird has wandered, from Mexico to Alaska, Los Angeles to the northern edge of Quebec and every point in-between.

Now, in June 2010, Songbird has returned to a place they have friends. Songbird has landed in Brockton Bay, looking for an old friend, one that had joined them onstage a few times with her flute.

Songbird is looking for Annette Hebert.


End file.
